


Evidences

by AmyLerajie



Series: Memoirs from the End of Time [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 08:51:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmyLerajie/pseuds/AmyLerajie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has always been attached to the memories that objects bring. He always had a habit of surrounding himself with objects, with memories unavoidably linked to them, knowing that some would bring him nothing but sorrow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evidences

Sometimes he still sets the table for two.  
He pulls out two napkins, two towels, two pairs of cutlery and everything it's perfectly identical.  
He makes pancakes and, if he wakes up early, he even takes out the griddle for krumkaker, especially if he is in a good mood, because he loves to hear him complain about the nickname he has given him. And the fact that it's stupid eating krumkaker on other days than Christmas.  
Krumkake. A strong and beautiful armor, with a sweet and soft heart.  
He knows that he doesn't hate those sweets. And he doesn't really hate his peculiar habit of giving people nicknames related to food.  
Of course he would never admit it, though.  
As he pulls out and fills the mugs with coffee, something, like a distant voice, a soft echo from his mind, tells him that what he is doing is wrong.  
He stands still with the mug in his hands, staring at it like if he was seeing it for the first time.  
He remembers that it was a gift, given on day like a lot of other ones, for no particular occasion, just for the sake of teasing him a little.  
A mug with a huge smile on it... which use could it have, if not for joking again over the fact that he never smiles?  
A mug that now seems to remind him, in the most cruel way, that he will no longer have the opportunity to see his rare smile.

_"We can't go on with this relationship. It makes no sense."_

The time they spend in front of the mirror, doing their hair, is almost the same.  
At the beginning of them living together it was not like that. Sometimes he was faster in fixing his spiky hair and then he stared at him for a good ten minutes while he was combing an already perfect hair. He couldn't tell the difference from when he just woke up and after.  
The Norwegian sacred hair ritual, as he named it -with the only result of having a hairdryer colliding with his head- was complete only after forty-five minutes of washing, conditioning, straightening, hairspraying and styling already perfectly styled hair that make him mutters something about "rebel hair"... resulting in the exact same hairstyle he had just after brushing. He never explained why he cared so much about his hair, but he has his theory. It has to do with the fact that, for him, being perfectly in order means showing respect for those in front of him.  
And for this reason he never complains, when he spends those forty-five minutes even when they have to go out together, even telling him that he looks perfect as he is.  
Slowly he takes the habit to slow down and taking the same forty-five minutes to prepare.  
Whenever he happens to open the drawer with the iron and hairspray and three types of comb, he always smiles.  
He touches them as if they were something precious, lost in his thoughts.  
Each time, however, he ends up looking in the mirror, to the part that was his, as he had separated from his, as a joke, with a small white sign on the top of the reflecting surface, after a long negotiation, as if it were a matter of state and that was a territory in common.  
He looks terrible.  
It no more takes forty-five minutes to comb. He cut his hair short, not wanting to have to deal with it. Picking up the comb again would remind him Norway's ritual.  
Another thing that, day after day, ends up breaking his heart.

_"It makes sense to me. It has to for you too. "_

He likes rain, but never dares to discompose under it. Not like he did in the past.  
He has a hand on the window glass, his eyes dazing outside, lost in his old memories.  
When Denmark finds him, he slips his hands around his chest, his arms crossed, touching the place in which his heart is, hugging him close, as if he wanted to absorb him, in a motion that was made for centuries.  
It has been long since the last time he told him to go away and don't touch him. He rises his free hand and touch him where the arm cross, instead. It has been several years since Norway looks for his embrace.  
Since Iceland died. He's no longer ashamed to feel, to long for warmness, love, affection. He's quieter, too, but his words are full of meaning.  
"I haven't said enough how much I loved him."  
Iceland loved rain. He loved to simply stand under it, face up, sometimes smiling. He dragged them often under it, in one of those rare laughs.  
Denmark knows what Norway is thinking when he looks at the rain. He remember his laugh, the way he always ran under the drops as to capture all of them, the way he yearned for a hot chocolate when they were back home.  
So he remains silent in that embrace, watching the rain, sharing the same memories.  
The umbrellas are lying in a dusty corner of the entrance, unused for years. Norway never goes out when it rains, as if he was afraid.  
He regrets not dragging him again under the rain. Creating new memories would have healed some of the wounds of his heart, his deep sadness, perhaps.  
He would have loved his face under the rain, just once more, he is certain of it.  
Even if it had to be full of tears.

_"I will disappear from your life anyway. Like this it will only be more painful."_

He never goes in the reading room. He doesn't like books. His only interests are legends and fairytales and nobody writes them anymore.  
And no one can cry for a long lost happy-endings.  
His violin is in the living room. Abandoned next to the window, right where his music sheets are, where he used to play. He liked to play with the window wide open, in a strange egocentric impulse that doesn't really fit him.  
The cello is right there, too, lying on the floor, in the dust.  
Denmark never tried to play it again, he never felt the need or the will to do it. The cello can just produce sad sounds, melancholic melodies. A violin can make you feel every sort of sensations and emotions, so playing just the cello doesn't make sense.  
The sound is useless, incomplete. Denmark is incomplete.  
So many things don't change, still.  
The territories do, they can change and become something else entirely, but there is always a memory of what it was, of the place they existed and were linked together.  
They never had real boundaries. The sea was always in between and the territories never touched. But there is a place, between Denmark's ribs, at the opposite of his heart, were he can't help but feel his loss. And it is like this from the moment Norway went away, the first time.  
There's a void, an emptiness he can't fill, a place were he used to feel what Norway felt. The pain of a war, the sensation of being powerless in front of the agony of his people, the fear of dying and cease to exist as a Nation.  
When Norway choose independence, those feelings disappeared, but Denmark felt this loss as a void, wanting again to feel and hear, to know what Norway felt. He missed that pain, the link to the man he loved.  
He learned too late that the place where he felt Norway was the one he used to feel his heart beating when he hugged him.

_"I don't care, I want to stay with you. I promised, remember?"_

The cross it's his first real gift. The first that Denmark gives him with the intention of a keepsake, almost a memento. It happens long before he starts fearing that he will be gone, one day, proudly independent, a last, stoic look back and nothing more.  
He thinks and thinks about what to give him, he doesn't sleep, at least, not before he falls asleep by force, terribly tired, at dawn. He imagines Norway's expression when he will give him that token, tormenting himself with a hateful or disgusted look from the friend, his dear and only friend.  
He decides to present him with the most banal thing. A cross. A simple, plain silver cross, a barrette for his rebel hair, a gift he thought remembering how he constantly place those strands behind his ear while talking.  
At the time, he knows nothing about his shyness and discomfort among strangers, he just thinks that the Norwegian is cute and not really sociable, but he likes him, for some reason he does not understand and he doesn't care.  
His response is surprising. Surprisingly positive. He thanks him and puts the barrette on almost immediately, with a little stretch of the lips that is not yet a smile, but almost. Denmark thinks that his silent friend is cute.  
He never denies it. Even after years, even if Norge always says that he is annoying, he always denies him affection, the Danish never, not a single time, thinks that his unusual friend is anything but cute. Yes, of course his feelings mature, he finds him fascinating, brilliant and over all essential for his sanity, but a simple movement of the Norwegian, to reach the barrette when he needs strength, reminds him of the boy with the overlarge robe he met centuries before.  
He just can't help but remembering all the different expressions he has learned to notice over his apparently stoic face. From the first shy smile to the redness of his cheeks when he's really happy. His subtle irony, difficult to understand, at first. The way he catches him watching intently at him, with the shadow of a smile on his lips.  
All these memories are linked with the cross that lays on Denmark's palm. The last one makes no exception. He has always been attached to the memories that objects bring. He always had a habit of surrounding himself with objects, with memories unavoidably linked to them, knowing that some would bring him nothing but sorrow. That is the reason why he still has his belongings, the wardrobe full of clothes, his books still in a random mess on the night table, his favorite, one he hated with all his strength, the pages black with commentaries about the terrible grammar and the lack of sense.  
Like he was about to enter the house, ready to scold him for the mess in the kitchen, but then making half compliments for his dishes. There's always too much butter, he says. Said.  
Norway is all around the house, still present, in a way, just like the complicated Lego structure that Iceland started years ago, adding pieces every time he visited, almost like he was rebuilding the relationship they had before. It's still in the living room and will never reach completion, but it is still an evidence that some land called Iceland used to exist, an evidence that proves they were close, they used to be like a parent and his child and that it's not completely lost if this stays.  
Still in the house, but nowhere to be found, no body to mourn, just objects, traces of their existence to which he clings to, because leaving all them behind would mean scattering the little sanity he still possess.  
He wants evidences to cling to, meaning that he really loved and was loved, by a long lost nation called Norway.

_"This won't be a good death."  
"Yours wouldn't be in any case. Let me stay until the end."_

_"Can you... hold me?"  
"I won't leave you alone."_

_Denmark doesn't ask him if he's scared. He can see in his eyes how much he is terrified and how much he regrets what will never be. Perhaps he hates him for surviving. But still, the Norwegian holds him closest that he ever dared to and tries to speak, to say all those things he bottled inside himself for centuries and never could express properly.  
Words, a wet sensation where the tears fall, nothing that makes sense, but, still, Denmark knows.  
From the moment he feels him huddling close, violet, desperate eyes locking on his, he knows._

**Author's Note:**

> It has been almost a year since I first started this story and now it is in English, despite my not-so-good level and a translation that took months to complete.  
> It still is one of the stories I wrote that I like the most and I am more attached to.  
> It was the first of a series of four and I really hope to translate all of them, to explore all the characters I love. I really hope that you will like them, too.


End file.
